The Five Times Sherlock Could Not Resist John
by Sweetest Possible Revenge
Summary: ...and that one time he really, really did. Rated M for safety. Oneshot.


**WARNINGS: Men getting it with men, starvation attempts, sex in public, mentions of prostitution, too many parentheses and italicized words, not Brit-picked, not chronological, plus a boatload of (crappily written) angst at the end. Unbeta-ed, too, so there. **

**Also, reviews? They are given warm milk, freshly baked cookies, and all the Sherlock they want. Please leave them here, and rest assured they will be well taken care of. **

**THE FIVE TIMES SHERLOCK COULD NOT RESIST JOHN**

_And one time he actually, truly, fucking well _did.

* * *

><p><strong>1.<strong>

John's curiosity, once roused, was a dangerous, dangerous thing. It had served him both ill and good in Afghanistan (once allowing him to discover hidden enemy camps when he tried to figure out _why those damn bushes just would not stop rustling_), and it served him (and Sherlock) both ill and good now.

So once they discovered the sex bazaar in Amsterdam, John refused to give it a rest until Sherlock agreed to go with him—not without reluctance, of course. The fact that he knew they were being tailed by Mycroft's people bore little consequence to his decision.

Ten minutes in, Sherlock began to wish he hadn't taken this case. If he hadn't, it wouldn't have turned out to be ridiculously easy (really, obviously it was the window cleaner, that fact had been staring the police right in the face, _literally_) and he wouldn't have solved it in a day (half, if it weren't for the language barrier) and they wouldn't be wandering these streets because they wouldn't have had time on their hands and was John _honest to God_ eyeing that sultry, dark-haired, absolute god of a boy over there? He couldn't be more than twenty and you could technically accuse John of robbing the cradle but _oh,_ that boy. He lay in a window decorated in stark black and grey draperies. He was topless, slim, with his jeans all but slipping off his narrow, beautiful hips. Auburn hair, eyes the blue of winter. He caught John watching, stretched lazily as a cat (jeans sliding an inch, a bare titillating inch lower) and smiled for Sherlock's lover.

Sherlock watched John watch the boy, and did not miss the tip of John's tongue dart out and brush over his lips. And he thought that if John wanted to, well. At this point his considerable brain ground to a halt and all he could think was, _If John wants to I might throw up but I will let him. _Because dear God John was up for anything, anything at all, and Sherlock was ready for everything John wanted and more. So when his personal tyrant turned, grabbed his hand, and said, "Let's go," Sherlock's heart seized up, but no, John was taking him in the opposite direction, _away_, and he let himself be dragged all the way back to the hotel where John unceremoniously pushed him up against the wall (_oh, God, yes_) and kissed him so hard their teeth clicked together. This did not stop Sherlock from opening his mouth so that John's tongue could slide in, nor did John let himself be distracted from clutching Sherlock to him as fiercely as though he would never let go.

Out of sheer relief (oh, and something else, naturally) Sherlock let John have his merry way with him, all through the night, until neither of them could sit up the next day, which was all to the good.

* * *

><p><strong>2.<strong>

Personally, Sherlock was not above sex in public, _no._ He was the initiator of such acts nine times out of ten, but when John had taken his hand, nodded at a security camera aimed straight at them (which would remain so as long as they were in that alley) and waggled his eyebrows suggestively, Sherlock hesitated, steeling himself to say no… until he realized the havoc this would wreak on Mycroft's frame of mind (plus England was undergoing delicate negotiations with China at the moment—something boring about trade, but which would surely have Mycroft a fair bit distracted). He looked at John and realized that the smaller man was thinking exactly the same thing. He suspected Mycroft had somehow found the time to kidnap John and once more bribe him for information about Sherlock. Again. He suppressed a sigh, wondering when John would ever learn, because _they really could split the fee, you know. _One payment was likely to pay the rent for the next three years, with enough left over to keep John in milk and jumpers for another four.

Here, Sherlock realized that John had been waiting patiently for an answer to his proposition for far too long, so without further ado he bent, captured John's mouth with his own, and spun them around so he could press his good doctor against the alley wall. John squirmed deliciously beneath him, working his hands free from where they were pressed between their bodies to grasp almost greedily at Sherlock's bum. Despite the distraction this presented, and his preoccupation with John's belt buckle, Sherlock still had not heard what he was listening for: the whirring which signified that the camera was turning politely away from them to observe the rest of the street. Grinning evilly into John's neck, he gave his lover one last kiss, then dropped to his knees.

Ten minutes and two admittedly world-shattering _silent _orgasms later, they emerged from the alley slightly rumpled and sweating, quite possibly breathing hard, looking more flushed than they ought to. Perhaps, Sherlock thought, people would think they'd been running, but one whiff of John, he knew, and that assumption would change. John always, without fail, smelled wonderful after sex—like clean sweat (did that make sense?) and sex and something else that was entirely John and nothing else. Sherlock smiled in satisfaction as he laced his fingers through his (gorgeous, brilliant, _incredible_) lover's, and wondered, as he watched the camera swing to follow their progress up the street, if ten minutes was enough to keep Mycroft out of both their lives for, hmm, two, three weeks.

As it turned out, ten minutes of the most theatrical and pornographic sex John and Sherlock could think up on the spur of the moment (and the boys of Baker Street could get very, _very _creative when they wanted to be) ensured complete radio silence from Mycroft for not one, not two, but three months.

* * *

><p><strong>3.<strong>

"So, do you have a boyfriend?"

Oh, how Sherlock remembered those words. Spoken awkwardly and embarrassedly, with a great deal of courage. He had been flabbergasted at the question then, and was still as flabbergasted now. He'd thought his astonishment stemmed from the fact that John had _dared_ to ask; Sherlock hadn't labeled him as the type to pry (which John most emphatically was not), and nobody had dared really ask him about his personal life—everyone simply assumed. (Mycroft and Lestrade did not count, one because he knew everything anyway, and the other because of…reasons.) Later on he realized that John had not meant to pry at all.

Now he smiled, remembering his awkward silence, which John had promptly mistaken for embarrassment. In truth he was resizing John, having taken him for a straight man. It was not the first time Sherlock Holmes had been wrong about his doctor, and it would most certainly not. Be. The last.

Said silence had led to John's hasty assurance of "It's perfectly fine" and Sherlock retorting that he knew it was fine, the man had Harry Watson for a sister, after all, and still talked to her, and holy gods this man was _surprising him_. So. Very. Not. Boring.

Why was he remembering this? Oh, yes.

Because John Watson, MD, had just kissed him. His flatmate (his seventeenth in possibly as many months, and the first one to have kissed him. Ever. Experiments don't count) who was apparently straight had just kissed him very, very hard, and with it came a sort of high only achievable with large doses of cocaine (Sherlock knew this, he had tried it on more than one occasion) but John was it, John was the epitome of that epic high, and he was doing it effortlessly. It was almost nothing to him, really, just leaning forward and pressing chapped lips to Sherlock's own.

There was no doubt in Sherlock's mind, none at all, that John Watson was a drug, only he was _healthy _for you, oh yes he was.

And the thing was, Sherlock hadn't wanted this at first. He knew very, very well that emotions, any kind of emotions in whatever context and situation, clouded his judgment, made his brain work a little bit slower because it had to accommodate all that extra data, and so he tried to avoid it. But look, sexual tension was sort of inevitable when everyone kept pairing you up with your flatmate. You would look at him and think _what if he—? _and try to quash the thought, but then the next day you would see him walk to the kitchen in nothing but a towel wrapped around his delicious hips. _Then _you'd remember that time you came into his room without knocking and caught a glimpse of his bare naked arse, and then remember the _other _six times that happened because you oh so conveniently kept forgetting to knock, especially when you knew he'd just come out of the bath. Add to that the fact that he's also seen _yours_ a fair number of times and perhaps there were these heated looks across the kitchen and thinking that John looked adorable and snuggle-worthy in the morning and subsequently realizing that if you were married to your work, you were almost certainly cheating on it now.

So Sherlock? He resisted. He resisted John with all his considerable willpower. He squashed the inappropriate thoughts of seducing John when he found the other man in the living room at six am clutching a cup of tea, bleary-eyed but refusing to go into the kitchen to make a proper breakfast until Sherlock had cleaned up last night's mess. (Because John? Not your housekeeper.) He ignored, to the best of his ability, the way his heart somehow sank and twirled and did Olympics-winning somersaults in his chest when John insisted, pleaded, bribed, bargained, and occasionally blackmailed him into eating because(and this would be a recurring theme) no one had cared, before. They had just shrugged, silently labeled and judged him for his eccentricities and predilections, and moved on. But John persisted, and this was how they came to be in the living room on a slow, caseless Saturday, with Sherlock on the couch and John sort of hovering over him with worried eyes, trying to gauge the consulting detective's reaction, and releasing a relieved sigh followed quickly by a moan when Sherlock reached up, curled his long violinist's fingers around John's nape, and kissed him back.

"John?"

"Mmmm?"

"Did you…eat anything? On the kitchen table?"

At this point John pulled back, revolted by the very thought. "Of _course _not, Sherlock, what am I, stu—"

"You are _not,_" Sherlock breathed, and pressed his mouth to John's again, before the high could fade, before John could ask him exactly what was on the kitchen table (because he really didn't need to know (but if _you _must, well it was a bunch of aphrodisiacs and a packet of Ecstasy. Don't tell John.).) There were other questions, of course, _so many of them_, but they could wait until after this kiss. And possibly the next. And the next. And the next.

* * *

><p><strong>4.<strong>

"Sherlock."

"What?"

"We're out of milk."

"And?"

"It's your turn to go get it."

"John, I'm in the middle of an experiment—"

"Please."

Sherlock looked up and sighed. He put down his beaker, actually remembered to kill the flame on the burner before he grabbed his coat and his scarf, then clomped noisily down the stairs and out the flat, muttering to himself, but not too loudly. Because one simply did not argue with John Watson when he stood over you with a teapot full of boiling water.

* * *

><p><strong>5.<strong>

Sherlock looked at John in agitation and waved his arms about as if this would somehow convey his point more effectively. (It did not.)

"John, we've talked about this—" and automatically cut himself off midsentence in anticipation of John's interruption.

None came.

Slightly miffed at this, Sherlock continued. "You _know _my feelings on the matter."

John did not answer. John was implacable. He approached the couch, where his lover was currently situated, with slow and steady inexorability. Like Godzilla, or the end of the world.

Sherlock rallied. "John, I refuse to do this. You do not have my consent and I am well aware that my cooperation in this matter is vital. So _no, _John, I will not comply. I refuse, I refuse, and I refuse."

Being five feet seven inches of pure BAMF, John paid Sherlock no heed. Even when Sherlock rose and towered over him, John simply folded his arms and stared the imperious consulting detective _down. _

After a few minutes of wordless, BAMF-laden silence from John, Sherlock wisely dropped back down on the couch. He knew when he was beaten. He knew it from the glimmer of steel and Afghanistan in John's eyes. Instead he directed his rancor at the _thing _John had placed on the table some time before.

_It _was a ham sandwich. With delicate, thin slices of sharp cheddar, crisp lettuce fresh from the market, and some tomato for happiness, with mayonnaise winding its way through the whole setup, all of this squeezed between two slices of warm wheat bread. It looked delicious and healthy—a combination you can only achieve if you're one John H. Watson.

"_No,_" Sherlock said fiercely. "I ate that fried chicken last night, John, and I had jam on toast for breakfast, so I can certainly be permitted to skip _lunch_—"

And as if on cue, Sherlock's stomach emitted a loud growl. The look on the detective's face—hurt, betrayal, sheer astonishment—as he looked down at his traitorous stomach made John crack a smile and bite his lips against the laughter that threatened to bubble out of his throat. Then because BAMFs like him were generous in victory, he kissed his errant lover and began to feed him the sandwich piece by succulent piece.

* * *

><p><em><strong>And the one time he actually, truly, fucking well <strong>_**did. **

Somewhere down the line, somehow John had made it so that Sherlock could not live without him. He would cringe at the cliché-ness of it all if he had the strength, but he doesn't, so he closes his eyes against the clean lines of Berlin and lets go, accepts it. This is Sherlock Holmes (is it? is it _still?_) who cannot live without John Watson. Therefore here he is in Berlin, not dead, but certainly not alive.

But oh, he _remembers. _

Sherlock had once told John that he could delete things from his memory at will, but he found that he could not do the same with anything that involved John himself. And over time, he found that he wasn't _willing _to. Now his hard drive is cramped and nearly full, because John had insinuated himself into every aspect of Sherlock's life, so that everything, every inaccurate hypothesis, every insignificant detail had John in it somewhere. Somehow.

So Sherlock remembers. He has glass in his chest now, minute shards breaking off from his heart (the one he told Moriarty didn't exist) every second, with every mile he gets further away from John, the glass sharp and scarlet mixing with his bloodstream, piling up in his veins so that some days he cannot move for the sharp stabbing pains in odd places like his wrist, or three centimeters up from where his heart should still be. They lessen when he recalls John freshly awakened, shuffling round the kitchen with his hair in a mess and commenting on the weather (but John was all the sun he ever wanted in the morning). He remembers sleepy smiles and all the nights they spent buried in each other's skin, all the times John patched him up or vice versa, all the times memorizing London at a breakneck pace. On the nights he huddles in cold, dank alleys waiting for Moriarty's men he warms himself with rooftop races across London, whirling and leaping and running for all they were worth. The week he follows Moran to Amsterdam he actually considers stepping foot—but no, too many memories it would hurt too much it would get him distracted. The weekly emails from Mycroft sustain him even if all they ever contain is the assurance that John is alive and well. (He asked for this, specified exactly how much Mycroft should tell him about John, but it doesn't mean he doesn't wish he had asked for more. That he could ask for more.)

He tries not to think of John. When this doesn't work, he tries not to think of John _too much. _

Some days (and these are the worst; these are the days he feels locked in, the days he opens his eyes and sees nothing, when he breathes it's not air but the mint of Moriarty's breath giggling into him _Sher_lock, _Sherlooooock) _he thinks he doesn't deserve John. That he's too filthy, too brash, too rude, too polluted for John beautiful warm clean John to touch him. Perversely these are the days he wants to fling himself back into London, to launch his weak impossible body into the air like a great demented bird and wing his way through stars and smog back to 221B and John, _always _John. Because John would reassure him, John would tell him he was being an idiot, John who praised him when no one else would, John who would soothe him into sleep and eating, John with the soft lips and soldier's courage who would ignore the barbs and insults which were Sherlock's first line of defense, dodge them like the experienced soldier he was to get to the heart of this high-functioning sociopath and teach him how to love. He had always exploded his genius on the world like a supernova, whether the world liked it or not, but it was John who made him feel like it was okay to do so. Like his existence was appreciated.

_God _he misses John. His grief is carved into, under, his skin, taking the form of one name. But despite all this he will not, _will not_ come back to England. Not until Moriarty is well and truly dead will Sherlock Holmes consider it safe enough to return to John. No matter how much glass glitters in the salt and silt at the bottom of his feckless heart. He will see this through.

It has been two years, eleven months and thirteen days since the day he left, but come hell or high water, he will see this through.


End file.
